


Ordinary Man

by MsMonstercat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - College/University, Doctor John Watson, M/M, Professor Sherlock, Sherlock and Lestrade are best friends just because, Slow Build, Sort of amnesia?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-03
Updated: 2015-05-18
Packaged: 2018-03-04 20:52:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3089066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsMonstercat/pseuds/MsMonstercat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"John?" </p><p>"I'm baffled that you already know my name, Mr Holmes." The grin now wide on his face. </p><p>"I thought we had sorted out the Mr Holmes business when we first met." Sherlock sighed and settled back down on the bed after he had shifted his pillows to keep him slightly upright.</p><p>"First met? Mr. Holmes, this is the first time I've talked to you since you were brought in."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It was after an extremely successful case, one of a kidnapper, missing ring, and drug cartel, that Sherlock had started to feel different. He wasn't ill or injured, he just didn't feel quite right. Everything felt out of touch as if it wasn't really there. Though he ignored the feeling almost as soon as it came, he didn't need to worry about something so small. But, the feeling wouldn't fade; no matter what Sherlock tried to do. If anything it only grew until soon every few minutes he would feel faint; always having to grab hold of something, or someone, before he almost passed out. At those times he swore he faintly heard John mutter, 'He's waking up.' When asked about it later, John only laughed. 

Now sitting in the flat with a hot cup of tea in his hands, John having gone out and Mrs Hudson cleaning the clutter about the room, the feeling was the strongest it had been the whole day. Even as he fought against it, it hit at him stronger than before. 

"John." He murmured, standing from his seat. He didn't get far before he stumbled and fell against the chair, the tea cup falling to the ground and shattering. Nothing felt right, nothing felt real. Was he asleep? Had he been drugged? He fell again, to his knees this time. His sight was blurred, the room spinning. Faintly he noticed Mrs Hudson run from the room as she shouted for John. She called him doctor, though. Why now? She had stopped calling him that ages ago. Another wave came over him and he was on all fours now, sweating, and panting like a dog. He couldn't speak and what he could hear didn't make sense. There were machines beeping, people he didn't recognize speaking, the sound of shoes scuffing against the floor as if a crowd of people had suddenly just appeared in the flat. As Sherlock turned his head he saw John rush into the room followed by- Molly? Nothing was making sense and the sounds were only growing louder. He cried out when he fell over onto his back, teeth grinding against each other as he tried to get his body to co-operate all while trying to keep his failing grip on reality. 

John was at his side now, hands on his shoulders as he looked over him. Sherlock could barely make out what he was saying; a rush of words he couldn't hear. But it didn't matter because he passed out not a moment later.

And he woke up. Seemingly seconds later. Now in a small hospital room smelling of disinfectant and the nurses cheap perfume, the walls a light beige with only a single painting hanging on the wall that faced him, the curtains on the window drawn back to let in the bright mid-day light. 

Sherlock pushed himself up with a wince, the machines around him softly beeping the steady rhythm of his heart beat. As he took another glance around the room John stepped in carrying a clipboard and dressed in a white coat. Odd. It was even more odd when he froze once he looked up at Sherlock who was now sitting upright in his bed. 

"I don't see why you took me to the hospital, John." Sherlock said with an aching and scratchy voice, giving his shoulders a roll to remove the tension in them. "I wasn't in that bad of a condition. Maybe I should have eaten like you advised, though... I didn't know you could be my personal doctor. I wouldn't have thought the staff would have allowed it, well you know how they are, glad you-" He stopped. John still hadn't moved, the shocked expression on his face sliding into a grin.

"John?" 

"I'm baffled that you already know my name, Mr Holmes." The grin now wide on his face. 

"I thought we had sorted out the Mr Holmes business when we first met." Sherlock sighed and settled back down on the bed after he had shifted his pillows to keep him slightly upright.

"First met? Mr Holmes, this is the first time I've talked to you since you were brought in." John said while walking over to the bed. "Your family will be relieved when they hear you've finally woken up." At John's comment Sherlock sent him a look, sitting up a bit more. Another wince crossing his face. He needed answers. 

"I couldn't have been out for more than a day, what are you talking about? John, stop with this stupid game, surely you could wait to get back at me for ruining your jumper another time." 

"It's Doctor Watson, Mr Holmes," John said gently, a small smile replacing the grin. "You've been in a coma for a year and only recently started showing real signs of recovery. We thought you had no chance of coming back until last night." 

Silence fell in the room as neither of the men spoke. But it couldn't be possible, John was John. Not some random doctor he had never seen. He had spent two years with him, and now he stood next to him saying he wasn't who Sherlock thought he was. 

"Mr Holmes?"

"John stop this!" Sherlock snapped, causing John to take a small step back. He had to still be dreaming from when he passed out, this had to be a dream. This was not the life he knew and it was one he wasn't sure he wanted to know. 

"Alright, alright, _Sherlock_. Please settle down. I think you just need time to adjust." With that said, John gave Sherlock's shoulder a light pat then turned and left the room. Sherlock was left alone for hours after that before his parents and Mycroft had came. But they couldn't be them, they had to be a fake, a dream. They were different and at the same time not. They looked the same, sounded the same, acted the same. But they had different lives. They were ordinary. Mycroft was only a desk worker at an office and his parents retired living in the countryside. 

The hours stretched on until they had gone, a whirl of tight hugs and tears again before they left. And Sherlock was alone with his thoughts once more. It was close to midnight by the time a nurse came to check on Sherlock. She came in with a tray of unappetizing, lukewarm hospital food and an apologetic smile on her face due to her bringing Sherlock's dinner late. He would have waved her away if not for the fact that the nurse was Molly. She was the same as the others; looked the same, sounded the same, acted the same. But she wasn't the Molly Hooper he knew. 

After a few minutes of conversation he found out that she had been assigned to Sherlock along with Doctor Watson when he had been admitted and said, with a small blush, that she enjoyed taking care of him. Once she left Sherlock placed the tray onto the small table beside the bed since he wasn't going to bother with the food. It was then that he had noticed a small brown novel on the table. 

The book had definitely seen better days; its spine was loose and cracked, the brown probably a dark rich tone before, now faded to a much more unappealing shade with rips and scratches all over the cover. The title of the worn out book was, 'The adventures of Sir Issac and Doctor Henrickson'. It was a silly old book about a wannabe detective and his doctor friend who went around old time Manhattan solving crimes. 

It made Sherlock's stomach drop. 

Every case the detective had solved in the book were the same cases Sherlock and John had solved. To the exact detail. He was shocked, to say the least. The only parts that had been changed, in that volume of stories, were the places in which the cases had taken place, the time period, and the names of the characters. All the characters had been replaced with the names of people he knew, including himself. 

At request, the rest of the books in the short series were brought to Sherlock and he spent the next few days reading the books and going through every detail, every word. He was half way done the final book when John walked in, still dressed in the crisp white doctors coat. The image didn't sit right with Sherlock; he wanted to see John back in his funny jumpers again. After reading the books and practically reliving each case and each moment with John, he couldn't accept that this here could be reality.

“So you found the book, then.” John said, again that same kind smile on his face. By now Sherlock realized that he must put on the smile for each patient he sees. He said nothing in return, he only nodded. 

“You probably don't even recall it, but when you were asleep I had read you those books.” He continued, walking over to Sherlock's bed and pulling over a chair. “Lots of the nurses found it silly, you know. After the first few months your family came by less frequently, I felt sorry you had no one around so I thought that maybe I could keep you company if I read to you a little.” 

Still Sherlock said nothing. 

John cleared his throat and shifted in the seat. “I honestly didn't plan to read you that entire series, it just sort of happened. Sorry if you didn't like it.” 

“No... No, I enjoyed the books.” Sherlock finally spoke up, his voice now back to it's velvety tone from the days of rest. John didn't seem to be expecting such a sound to come from his patient as his eyes widened slightly and he cleared his throat again, giving another smile. If only John knew just how much he enjoyed the adventures they had.

“Oh? Well that's great to hear, Mr Hol – er, Sherlock.” John quickly corrected. “Now, how are you feeling? Depending on your answer you might be able to leave early.”

There was a tug at Sherlock to lie about his state and say he was feeling in no condition to leave yet. Because he was... nervous? He never felt that often. But on the other hand, if he could be discharged sooner he would be able to figure out just what exactly was going on. A well thought out prank, possibly? As much as he wanted to believe that idea and not of this place being what was true, he couldn't be sure now. 

“I believe I'm fit enough to leave,” Sherlock answered. “I'm a bit sore still, but I'll be fine.” 

John grinned, standing. “That's wonderful news. I'll contact your parents to arrange a time for when they can pick you up and we'll run just a few quick tests to make sure you really are alright to go.”

“Am I not allowed to leave by myself?”

“Under different circumstances you would, but you were in a bad accident, Sherlock. You suffered a horrible head injury and developed retrograde amnesia because of it. We would want you to take it easy for the next few weeks or so.” John reminded him and left the room again.

After more long hours consisting of various tests, Sherlock's parents arrived again with warm smiles on their faces and a bag of new clothes in hand. They were to bring him to his flat and check in with him every few days to see how he was doing, they told him as they helped Sherlock out of his bed and gave him the new clothes. When he left to the bathroom to change and was able to really see his injuries, he wouldn't doubt John when he said a bad accident. Of course from an apparent year of doing nothing but rest, many of his wounds that needed to be bandaged, like the rather large cut up his side or the long cut across the side of his forehead, were un covered; leaving neat, pale scars on his skin. His chest was still faintly bruised from what he assumed would have been broken ribs. The year had also done a number on his appearance; Sherlock's already thin, but once lean and lightly muscled, frame looked close to sickly with his skin stretched tightly over his ribs, hips, and collar bone when he stripped himself of the hospital attire. His cheeks more hallow, cheek bones more prominent than ever, and while they could have enhanced his features the dark circles under his eyes cancelled it out as they stood out greatly on his pale skin. None of it was comforting; it made him doubt himself more, actually. Even though he was trying to hold on to the fact that the place he was in wasn't his actual life. 

“Sherlock? Are you alright in there?” His mother's voice brought him out of his thoughts and he quickly tossed on the purple dress shirt and black slacks he had been given before opening the door.

“Sorry, I'm still not used to being on my feet.” He lied with a tight lipped smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first chapter's a little short, but this was sort of the test chapter to see if anyone would be interested in it ^^. Chapters following this should be a good bit longer.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd! So sorry for the wait on the update, I've been really busy with things (including finals which are finally over, thank god) and had little to no interest in writing, but I finally buckled down and got this written up. I wrote the first chapter so long ago that I'll probably be going back to rewrite at least a portion of the chapter because I'm not too happy with it :/ Anyways, hope you like this chapter!

Sherlock was wheeled out into the lobby by his parents once they had gathered the few belongings he had in his room; various items that people had left during his stay in the hospital. Molly was quick to find them before they left so she could say goodbye to Sherlock, and for once he allowed her tight embrace and kind wishes.

"This is going to be a little tricky," Sherlock said to himself while his parents made sure that everything was in order since his mother refused to let him do 'more than he should'.

"What's going to be tricky?" John's voice came from behind Sherlock, startling him.

"I was just going over a few things, I think I'm starting to remember a bit." Sherlock lied again and John beamed at the response.

"That's great news, Sherlock," John said while taking a seat next to him. "I wanted to make sure I got to say goodbye to you before you were on your way, you were my longest patient after all," Sherlock smiled lightly at that. "But I don't want to see you here again you hear me? Especially not how you came in a year ago."

"I'll definitely try my best."

"I'll take your word on that." There was that smile again. The one that meant nothing, really. "Also, I would like to come by every so often to see how you're doing. If that's alright with you that is." John said, crossing his legs and putting his hands in his lap.

Sherlock didn't reply, staring at the blank wall in front of him. He could have sworn he heard something; a ghost of a breath or a hushed whisper to his left. Though the hospital lobby was fairly busy the sound he heard didn't seem to fit the room's noise. Squinting slightly, he strained to hear what he had just missed. It was there again, the hushed whisper, but whatever was being said couldn't be made out. It was all being said too fast to understand, sounding more so like a breeze than actual words. His sight on the plain wall blurred, vision rimming with black as he tried to focus on the 'words' and only managed to hear a sound: 'Sh'

"Sherlock?"

A hand touched his shoulder lightly and John's voice brought him back slowly. "I – Yes that would be fine." Sherlock blinked several times and tried to shake the light headed feeling. John raised a brow and moved his chair to be closer to the other man who was still staring at the wall.

"Sherlock, are you sure you are well enough to leave? Your test results all came back fine but are you feeling alright?" John asked, looking over Sherlock's frustrated features.

Sherlock snapped back to himself.

"Yes, I'm fine, Doctor," Sherlock replied smoothly. John didn't look fully convinced, Sherlock noticed. His sudden change to calm after a period of blanking must have brought some concern to the other man. With a nod, John stood and met Mr. and Mrs. Holmes as they made their way over to their son. Their conversation was brief and Sherlock heard John retelling his parents everything that he had only just told him as well as something hushed that he couldn't make out. John passed them a note. Once the conversation was over goodbyes and thank you's were said before the elder Holmes' pushed Sherlock out of the lobby and to the parking lot.

Sherlock was silent during the drive; stuck in his own thoughts as he stared at the passing scenery. His mother went on and on about people he'd never met and places he couldn't care for, not now anyways. But he did learn a few things about this life, his apparent life. Of all things, he taught at the University of London; chemistry and experimental psychology. He had little friends. There were only a few who stood him, but he still rarely would see them as he preferred to stay at home. Or that's what his parents told him since John had insisted they try and jog his memory by telling him about his life. Sherlock didn't need to 'jog' his memory, though. There was nothing here that needed remembering, he kept telling himself. Sooner or later he would wake up from the horrible dream, John, his John, at his side like always.

The car stopped outside what Sherlock was thankful to see was 221 Baker Street, giving him a little bit of relief that not all he knew was fake, giving him some hope that this wasn't real. He was out of the car before his parents unbuckled their seat belts and walked up to the familiar door, not pausing to knock while he fumbled with the keys; the place was his home after all. No one was there to greet him. The entire of the flat sat still in complete silence, not even the sound of a ticking clock was heard. Sherlock bounded up the stairs, taking two at a time until he reached his door, his and John's door, stepping in with rising hopes only for them to fall. Like the rest of the place, 221 B was empty. Dust covered every surface and there was a clutter that resembled how the room used to look before he had met his John, showing that no one had been in the flat for a very long time.

"I suppose you had told Dr. Watson the truth when you said you were remembering a few things," Came his mother's voice from behind him. Sherlock didn't respond, he walked further into the room at a slow pace, praying that John would appear from the kitchen or from out of the shower with that real smile on his face as to say 'welcome home.' But there was no one except him and his parents.

"Sherlock? Are you alright?" A hand was laid gently on his shoulder and he turned around, pulling a tight smile to his face.

"Of course I am. It's been so long that I couldn't wait to return home though I didn't think it would be so strange." he replied.

"I'm sure once we leave you'll settling back in nicely." His mother said with a smile, dusting something off of her son's shirt. "There are a few things you need to know before we go. You need to take two of these pills twice a day, one in the morning, and one in the evening. Dr. Watson said they would help your brain recover memories faster, and help with any headaches you might start getting. Also, he wanted us to give you this; it's his personal number and said that if you had any questions or needed help to call him."

Sherlock took the bottle of pills and the small slip of paper with a small nod.

Before leaving his mother mentioned how they could bring over some groceries later since the flat's cabinets and fridge would only be stocked with outdated and stale food, Sherlock again only nodding in response. Tight embraces were given again and he was left alone.

Tossing the bottle of pills aside and tucking the slip of paper into his back pocket, Sherlock wasted no time in searching the disordered flat for answers. Things were thrown and stacks of books and papers knocked over in his search, and when he found nothing, not even a single mention on any note or newspaper to a case he and John would have worked on, he went upstairs to John's room.

Or what should have been John's room.

It was bare save for the bed and nightstand on the other side of the room, most likely for another tenant so that they wouldn't have to go through the trouble of lugging a mattress up the stairs. Any sign that John could have stayed in the room had vanished.

Sherlock sat down on the bed, part of him wanting to face defeat but another willing to give his life to not give up. The facts were there; it wasn't some sort elaborate joke, much to the man's dismay, it was real. Everything around him was real. He sat on the bed, motionless and staring, as the sun started to set over the clouded London skyline, only realizing how long he had been still when a bright beam of golden sunlight from the setting sun hit his face from the window across the room. He was almost hesitant when he stood and stepped out from the room, closing the door shut behind him.

Seeing the bare room gave him no comfort.

For once in a long time Sherlock felt sleep pulling at his mind and he didn't bother fighting against it. The mix of the drugs he had been given before he had been discharged and the rude shock of reality took a toll on him that he only wished would go away. He felt so human and he hated it. He was disgusted by it. There were several bags of boxed and canned foods on the counter when he got downstairs meaning his parents had returned at some point and most likely assumed he was asleep in his room as the door was shut, and the small note next to the bags told him there were also various drinks in the fridge. A smiley face was drawn at the end of the note. Sherlock frowned back at it.

Ignoring the bags with food even though his stomach growled slightly in protest, Sherlock headed down the hall to his room, shrugging off and tossing his shirt to the side somewhere and doing the same with his trousers so he was left in his pants before he sank onto his bed. He was tired, yes, but sleep didn't come as soon as he had hoped. There was a dull ache forming behind his left eye and the silence in the flat was deafening. So he laid there until the faint light behind the curtains disappeared completely and the room was covered in darkness, only then finally losing consciousness.

\---  
The dreams which followed were a mess of clear and blurred memories; those that were blurred Sherlock couldn't be sure if he remembered experiencing them or not even though they showed people he knew well. Old cases mixed with blurred fragments of what he would usually say were boring ordinary people activities; having lunch at various places, getting groceries from Tesco, studying in a public library. A view of a different hospital room appeared longer than the other images and his gaze was able to move around this time. He slowly moved his stiff neck to his left to see someone asleep in one of the chairs next to the bed, it took him longer than he would have liked but it finally clicked that it was John, not Doctor Watson, sleeping next to him. Sherlock's throat felt like sandpaper, raw and sore, his words sticking in his raw throat with a weak croak and a wince of pain. His body was weak; so weak that he could hardly move his arm as he tried to reach over and touch his friend, to feel the soft fabric of the beige jumper John wore rather than the starched and pressed lab coat.

His hand barely made it past the bed's guard rail before his vision started to rim with black again, exhaustion pulling him back to sleep. A persistent beeping was coming from the blank wall to his right. Was he still asleep and dreaming? The thought couldn't be processed as his eyes fell shut and he was out.  
\---

The beeping grew louder as he came back to consciousness, this time in the bed he had fell asleep in the night before. The throbbing behind his eye was still there and the annoying sound only made it worse, he grabbed around in the direction that it was coming from and when his hand finally landed on the box creating the noise he hit it until it shut up. He wasn't sure when exactly he fell asleep, but it felt like he hadn't slept for long. The sight of '6:00 A.M.' in red letters on the bedside clock making him groan and hide his face in his arm.

Pulling himself out of the warmth of the blankets he had cocooned himself in, Sherlock walked unsteadily into the kitchen while stretching his sore limbs, his joints making satisfying cracks and pops. He ignored the bags sitting on the counters again as he went about making himself tea and as the water boiled he grabbed the bottle of pills he had tossed onto the couch the other day, taking two in hopes they would get rid of the constant throb in his temple. He rubbed his eyes and went back to his tea.

The silence of the flat didn't bother him as much as it had when he first arrived, he soon settled into it like he had before he had met John. Not the John he met in the hospital with the fake reassuring smile, _his_ John, the John with the honest smile he met in the lab because of Mike Stamford, he reminded himself. Was that man even real? He rubbed his temple as the pain turned from a dull ache to a sharp spike. Christ, thinking of anything that had to do with what he knew to be true hurt. Nursing his hot tea Sherlock picked through the grocery bags finally and settled on a small bag of saltine crackers to nibble on to take the edge off his hunger, leaving the mess of boxes and bags of food where he put it.

Having eaten two crackers and knowing that would suffice, he started slowly picking through the mess of the flat, sipping at his tea as he went. The books scattered and stacked were all familiar to him, they varied from human biology and advanced physics to psychological theory textbooks and Hemingway novels. Moving over to his desk he found that the majority of papers littering it’s surface were not his own; there were several essays and lab reports written by various different people whose names were completely foreign to him. There was a puzzling moment before he saw how some were either graded or in the process of being graded, his handwriting scrawled over the pages, that he remembered he was apparently a teacher, connecting that the papers must have been from one of his classes.

Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose, the ache again turning into sharp stabs. He needed to lie down. Placing the cup on the arm of the couch, he laid down across it and it wasn't long until he was out again.

 

Sherlock woke with a start, knocking his now cold tea to the floor as it teetered on the arm of the chair and fell off with a sharp crash. He blinked, confused at what woke him, and then heard the ring of the doorbell and a pounding at the door downstairs. He was still a bit disoriented when he stood and went to check the door, due to the pills he took earlier he told himself, forgetting entirely that he was only in his pants. Who he certainly wasn't expecting to see at the door with a wide grin on his face was Lestrade.

"Sherlock! It's bloody good to see you mate." The man didn't wait for a response. He grabbed hold of Sherlock around his shoulders and tugged him close to his clothed chest tightly.

"Lestrade? What are you...?” Sherlock trailed off as Lestrade continued to hold him tightly, his shoulders shaking lightly for only a second before he pulled himself away, his expression tired but relieved.

"Oh please, this isn't our first meeting, drop the 'Lestrade' shit. It took me long enough to get on a first name basis with you, I'm not starting over again." He joked lightly then took account of Sherlock's lack of clothing at last and, cursing to himself, bustled the taller man back into the flat and out of the chilled, afternoon fall air.

"Tell me how they're letting you stay here alone when you got out of the hospital a day ago? Honestly, it's not like you went through something easy. A coma for a year isn't a light matter, Hell, a coma, in general, isn't a light matter." Sherlock let the other man lead him back up the stairs into the warmth of the flat, Lestrade sighing at the broken cup and spilt mess, and back into his bedroom where a pair of joggers and a loose t-shirt were put into his arms. "Go get dressed while I clean up that mess." Was all he said, and Sherlock nodded without argument.

His head was still fuzzy, the throbbing in his temple still very much present. To have someone he knew give him a bit of a hand while he was out of it for the moment had him silently grateful. Once changed he met Lestrade in the living room; the mess had been swept up, the groceries were being placed in the cupboards, and fresh cups of tea were sitting on the coffee table for the two of them.

"Lestrade, sorry, Graham," Sherlock corrected himself but still received an odd look, "While I do appreciate your visit, I can fend for myself just fine." The Inspector sighed and motioned for Sherlock to take a seat on the couch, sitting in the chair across from him afterwards.

"You never lie often, blunt and stubborn as Hell you are, but I know for certain that you aren't well enough to look after yourself right now."

"How's that?"

"You called me Graham, Sherlock."

"That's your name, is it not?" Again he sighed, running a hand over his face.

"No. It's Greg. I've known you for almost six years and you haven't called me anything but 'Greg' for the last five," Sherlock nodded at that. He never could get Greg's name right before. Some things didn't seem to change. "You sure you're alright to leave the hospital?" There was a genuine concern on the other man's face as he looked over Sherlock like he was to find some sort of physical indication that he wasn't fit to be out on his own.

"My doctor said all my tests came back fine, he saw no reason to keep me there any longer." He replied shortly, taking a sip of his tea.  
"But, I mean, do you think you're alright?"

Simple answer: No.

"Yes, I think I'm alright, why wouldn't I be?" Sherlock lied through his teeth and Greg looked to catch the lie with a slight raise of his brow. But how was he supposed to explain to someone that before he woke up from a supposed coma he had been living a completely different life?

Greg didn't speak for a moment; he took another drink of his tea before setting it down on the table and leaning back in the chair, "Now I know you've just got back and all but what do you say about getting a bite at a place nearby? Get some real food in you instead of IV fluids. You're looking thinner than usual,"

"Yes, I believe Doctor Watson mentioned that I'll be needing to work on gaining more muscle mass." John had specifically told him that while they worked on getting Sherlock out of the bed and throughout the walking therapy while they waited on the test results. That had been quite an embarrassing ordeal, but they said he made amazingly quick progress compared to most patients. Sherlock took a drink of his own tea before setting it down as well, "You'll stay here if I say no, won't you?"

Greg grinned, "Both stubborn as Hell, we are."

 

After helping Sherlock back to his room, as the man soon realized that his legs were not happy with the sudden amount of walking, Greg cleared their cups and rinsed them while Sherlock changed into better clothes. He appeared moments later in a pair of jeans and his purple button down, both of which now looked like a size or two too large instead of hugging his body nicely.

"Your lucky day. Found this with the bags of groceries and I think you'll be able to put it to good use," Greg revealed a silver walking cane with a little flourish. Sherlock faltered slightly at the sight of the cane, John's cane, but kept his expression neutral when he reached over to take it. A sharp spike of pain to his temple.

"Wasn't this here before? I recognize it." He said, testing the feel of it by leaning his weight on it and walking over to the door. It helped.

"Nope, it was on the counter with the bags. I can't remember a time when you would even need a cane, maybe you recognize it from the hospital." Greg suggested with a shrug and grabbed both of their coats, helping Sherlock into his even though he protested. 

They stepped out of the flat with Greg in the lead, and as they walked down the streets Sherlock couldn't help but notice the smallest of differences. The blue Mercedes-Benz that was always parked in the same spot on Melcombe Street – the one with the very noticeable crack in its rear windshield and the licence plate BD51 SMR – was now silver in colour with its rear bumper missing a large chunk on the right side but with the same licence plate; the shops they passed had different names but the same signs and goods to sell; brown bricked buildings turned white, white bricked buildings turned brown.

It all could have been pushed aside with simple explanations as to why they were different; it had been a year after all. But Sherlock knew better. Pulling from his thoughts, Sherlock didn't question when Greg lead him into Tapas Brindisa Soho. It was the same restaurant he and John had first gone to and it was a relief to see that nothing had changed about the small place, inside or out. One glance at the cane Sherlock was leaning his weight on had the short, brunette waitress seating the two in a booth between the bathrooms and the entrance.

The menus that had been placed in front of them were not the ones Sherlock was familiar with, and as he looked over the choices he couldn't help but feel frustrated over something so small. Still he looked over the options though with no real interest; the food was completely different and not of his tastes. The two crackers he had had earlier didn't seem to have made much of a dent in his hunger as he had hoped, it now gnawing uncomfortably in his stomach.

"What do you think you'll be getting? I'll probably stick with the lamb." Greg smiled and put the menu down.

"I'm not sure what's good," Sherlock replied with his eyes still on the menu. Feeling the other man's gaze on him, he looked over his menu with a raised brow. "Something on my face, Greg?"

The man was quick to compose himself, pulling back on his smile. "No, no. Sorry, I would suggest the Patatas bravas. It's quite good." Sherlock only nodded and placed his menu on top of Greg's, though he knew that there was something eating at Greg that he left unsaid. He had no doubt it would come out soon.

Their waitress, Wendy, said her nametag, returned with a smile and the two glasses of water they had asked for earlier not long after they finished looking at the menus. As he had said, Greg ordered the house special lamb, and since he had no better options Sherlock went with Greg's suggestion of the Patatas Bravas.

"When do you suppose you'll get back to the university? There's no rush, of course, but there have been some students asking when you'll be back." Greg asked, sparking conversation once Wendy had collected the menus and left to the kitchen.

"Yes, well, I'm not sure about that." Sherlock looked over to the table he and John had had when they were at the restaurant. It was vacant now. Sherlock was tempted to switch tables. His temple throbbed at the thought. 

There was his grin again. Greg seemed to do that often now, "The Sherlock Holmes I know is sure about everything,"

 _But I'm not the Sherlock Holmes you know,_ he thought with some annoyance and hummed in response.

Greg held most of the conversation until their food arrived, he talked about his life as boring as it was, but Sherlock sat silent and nodded to the new information he was getting. He told how he and Molly – Nurse Molly – were doing well with their relationship and that it was because of her that he had known about Sherlock's discharge so soon. He tried to be casual when he mentioned his criminal investigation classes he was teaching at the university but instead it sounded like a reminder, and when Sherlock's expression didn't change in the slightest at the story of a frequent troublemaker in his class – he assumed from the way Greg talked about the student that he probably should have known of the boy – he dropped the subject of work immediately. Thankfully Wendy came over with their food soon after.

The Patatas Bravas was simple; the potatoes had been cooked well to tenderness and the tomato sauce poured generously on the dish was pleasantly sweet with a kick of spice at the end. It was something Sherlock would enjoy often, but he had a feeling that Greg already knew that.

They ate silently for half of their meals, Greg looking uncomfortable in Sherlock's presence for the first time that day. He couldn't help but take a little pity on the man; he had been the one trying to keep up a conversation while Sherlock obviously wasn't acting like the same person he knew. He was being a friend.

Sherlock placed his fork down, "For someone who was in a coma for a year I still feel very exhausted. I probably wouldn't have gotten up until much later if you hadn't come knocking."

Greg brightened at hearing Sherlock speak up, a genuine warm smile returning to his features. He wouldn't admit it out loud, but that smile was starting to grow on Sherlock. "Then I guess it's a good thing that I did. I'm sure in a few days you'll be back on that weird schedule of yours again. All those late nights and early mornings, I still wonder how you managed to drag yourself to work and then have multiple lectures for the next nine hours. Machine Holmes. Remember how the other professors called you that for a good few months?"

Apparently Sherlock’s small smile wasn’t enough to convince the man that he did remembered as his expression turned serious the second after,

"Sherlock...How much do you remember?" And there it was; the question that had been stuck in Greg's throat since the name slip up. "Yeah I get that you and your doctor think it's alright for you to be taking care of yourself, but really, and please be honest with me, have you been forgetting things since you woke up?" Even if he told the truth or his truth at least, Greg wouldn't believe one word. Because while, no, he hadn't been forgetting things since he woke up in the hospital, Greg obviously thought that he had.

 _But maybe I have been,_ the sudden thought came and went. 

"I suppose...I may have forgotten a few things temporarily, but of course you have to understand that memory loss is a very common side effect to head injuries."

"Well 'course it is, but what I'm getting at is do you need some help? If you're forgetting things wouldn't it be best if you had someone there for you until you got back on your feet?"

Sherlock shook his head, “Thank you for your concern, but I do have my doctor coming in to check on me and my parents, though I had said no, insisted they would come by every so often to make sure I ate. But…If I am in need of someone, you’ll be the first person I’ll call.” 

Greg nodded, happy with Sherlock’s answer, and they finished their meals in silence; a comfortable one at least. After the meal was paid for, the two left with the same silence following them, hands in coat pockets. The temperature had dropped more as the afternoon started to dip into the evening, Greg acting as a mother hen and hurrying them into a cab so Sherlock wouldn’t have to walk in the cold. Though he wasn’t asked to, Greg filled in more pieces of a story Sherlock had no memory of, retelling stories like the way they first met as fresh, young faced professors at the university as a way to remind his friend. Again, Sherlock was silently grateful. 

At his flat, Sherlock thanked Greg for the afternoon out and quickly left the cab before the other man could follow him into the flat and mother him more. But it wasn’t until he was alone again with his thoughts in the silence of the flat that he noticed the dull throbbing of his head again and the sudden wave of exhaustion that the day took on his tired mind and body. It was as if he had to keep his mind busy to hold the headaches at bay. 

Shrugging his coat off, he tossed it onto one of the chair carelessly and grabbed the bottle of pills left on the counter, taking two dry and heading back to his room. He was in the middle of changing out of his trousers when his phone on the nightstand buzzed, displaying a missed call and new voice mail from an unknown number. Though his mind begged for the soft bed in front of him, he grabbed his phone to check the voice mail. 

_“Hello, Mr. Holmes- sorry, Sherlock. It’s Doctor Watson calling,”_ John’s voice rang loud and clear through the phone’s speakers. The throb in his temple spiked when John called him by his first name.

_“I got your number from your parents if you’re wondering. But I had come by this afternoon to see how you were settling back in so far, do a quick check up, to find you won’t home. I was worried a bit at first, but one of the nurses here told me that her boyfriend was a friend of yours and had taken you out to eat. Ha-ha, so I’m assuming you’re doing quite well but I would still like to come check up on your sometime soon. Please call me back once you get this, this is my personal number so I should pick up right away. Ta.”_

Sherlock added the unknown number under the contact ‘John’.


End file.
